


The Blood Will Dry

by VeritasEtVita



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Alternate Universe, Canon Compliant, F/M, Older Arya, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:16:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3569336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeritasEtVita/pseuds/VeritasEtVita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gendrya one-shots and drabbles, mostly from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mine Only

**Author's Note:**

> _And the blood will dry_   
>  _underneath my nails_   
>  _and the wind will rise up_   
>  _to fill my sails_
> 
> _So you can doubt_   
>  _and you can hate_   
>  _but I know_   
>  _no matter what it takes_
> 
> _I'm coming home_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Arya hadn't run off, and if Gendry had left BwB after a while. Now after being reunited, the two of them wander around Westeros, looking for stability and safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** In a different clothing style

"No," Gendry kept repeating himself. " _No_ , Arya.”

"What’s wrong with the plan?! We’re hiding in a brothel. It’s appropriate."

"I don’t like whores. And I don’t like your idea." He gestured toward her figure. "You’ve been playing a boy since I’ve met you. Why not do that?"

Arya resisted the urge to throw something at his face. “In case you haven’t noticed, Gendry,” she argued through gritted teeth, “I’ve flowered, and I’ve filled out. I can’t pull it off like I used to. Don’t act like you couldn't tell!”

He swallowed, his face a tomato—with rage or embarrassment, she could not tell. “Of-of course I can! Stop turning this around on—”

"Liar!"

Gendry let out a sharp breath through his nose and ran a hand through his dark hair.

She took a few breaths of her own and spoke up in a calmer voice, “I’ll need to… _talk_ to one of them and get that sword—nothing more.”

"Arya…"

” _After that_ , though… don’t let anyone else take me tonight. You’re going to be a customer. I’ll be yours only.”

His reply to that was slow. He still clearly did not like the idea of Arya acting as a brothel whore for the night, but she always won against him.

"Mine only," he agreed.

—

Arya felt Gendry’s eyes on her as she made her way into the main room that busy night. She could not blame him. It would be the first time he had ever seen her in a corset, on top of it being her first time wearing one. Although she was covered, more so than some of the other whores, she felt exposed, the garmet cinched tight against her curves, her bosom squashed into her chest. She wore no skirt; just smallclothes to cover her bottom parts.

The thin line Gendry made with his lips as his blue eyes traveled downward indicated his disapproval, but now was not the time for him to scold her. He was seated with someone they needed to steal from. It hadn't been hard spotting the castle-forged steel that decorated the leader.

 _I’m wearing a face_ , she reassured herself as she made her way to Gendry. Already, the men with him were looking up. She walked with confidence under her mask, like a man she knew once upon a time.

All for Oathkeeper.

She recalled learning that Brienne of Tarth had carried a sword reforged from her father’s Ice. Since then, she was determined to get it back in her family’s honor, even more so when somewhere along the way, Brienne lost the sword to a group of outlaws and was presumed dead.

Gendry recognized the description of the outlaws—he once ran with the Brotherhood and would know these things. This particular group was quick to anger, however. They would not give up such a valuable sword, especially to one of their rival groups.

"What’s your name, good ser?" she asked, in the most seductive purr she could muster when she approached.

The man with dark, raggedy braids took a long swig of his ale, some of it spilling onto her exposed bosom. She did not wipe it off. “Droth. Ain’t a ser,” he replied, grinning. She tried not to punch him when his eyes traveled eagerly over her. “But you can scream that if ya like.”

She smiled and slithered her way to the leader’s lap. She felt a certain pair of blue eyes burning into her.

Droth looked at Gendry and laughed. “Look at how supple this one is, boy—what’s yer name again?”

Gendry’s jaw clenched. “Ren.”

 _Mine only_. His words, his agreement.

"Yeah, yeah, Ren—ah-ha! Look at this blush," Droth continued. His breath stank as he closed the distance, and his fingers were sweaty as he gripped her face with a free hand. Arya’s hands formed fists in her lap, but she kept her cool.

He turned her face to Gendry. “This one’s a coinmaker, don’t you think?”

Gendry’s eyes caught hers. She tried not to let guilt and shame consume her, but she hated the look on his face—so unhappy, so disgusted, so _angry_ —all at the same time. But for the plan’s sake, for hers, he kept up appearances.

"She’s beautiful," he managed.

 _He’s playing along_ , she reasoned, although her breath caught itself in her throat, _just to appease Droth._

She barely felt the bandit leader stand and sling her over his shoulder like dead hunting game. She tried not to kick him, and forced her fists to unclench and hang limp. She even forced a giggle as Droth took her upstairs, to replace the scream of rage she wanted to let out when he slapped her rear.

She tried to think of Gendry, of their plan, being his only as the main room disappeared below, but when she lifted her eyes, his seat was empty.

—

The room was lit romantically with several candles, but all Arya wanted to do was set the place on fire. This customer, too.

Droth deposited her onto the bed and immediately climbed on top.

Fortunately, Arya was prepared. She slid easily from under him just as he dipped down to kiss her.

"What the?!"

From behind the closed curtain draperies, she produced a dagger coated with poison. She pointed it at the bandit as he slowly turned to look at her. In the dimmer lighting, he seemed more ominous—overweight but strong, his features dirtier and darker than Gendry’s.

But Arya would not allow herself to be intimidated. It was not her way.

"You like it rough, don’t ya?" he growled, and began walking to her. There was no rush in his steps, but she was not going to slow down just because of that. She sidestepped gracefully and made to shank him, but he caught her armed hand by the wrist.

"Bastard!" she cried as he lifted her off the ground, until her feet dangled. She used every effort to kick, but the blows into his ribs did not affect him. Her other arm barely grazed his skin, too short to effectively reach.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Her mind racking hastily for an alternative. She was supposed to thrust the dagger into his side, to watch his body get paralyzed and hit the ground. She was supposed to have outrun him.

"Let go!"

And then the door swung open.

 _Fwip-SPLICKK_ , went the throwing axe as it ripped through the air and embedded itself into Droth’s skull. The grip on her wrist released and she toppled to the ground. The big man’s body crumpled next to her, face-down.

"I did say you were mine only, m’lady."

 _I’ll be yours only_ , her mind whispered. Remembering the dagger in her hand, she stabbed it into the man’s back, in exchange for the Valyrian steel at his belt.

"I’m not m’lady,” she said, mentally kicking herself for such a shaky voice and such a weak grip on the hilt.

Gendry stepped carefully to her. He took the sword from her hand and to his own belt for safekeeping.

"Arya—"

"I could have done this on my own." She felt like a weakling in front of him, having been rescued like the maidens in Sansa’s songs and daydreams.

"No, you couldn’t have," he argued. "I told you it was a bad idea and I was an idiot to agree. This could have ended terrible."

"And it didn’t."

"But it could have. And I would’ve blamed myself for it."

Arya was stubborn, but this was Gendry, and he was different from everyone. With him, she allowed herself moments to soften; to be humbled.

"Thanks," she mumbled, her face reddened.

He did not say anything back. Instead, he held out his hand. She grasped it and let him pull her up.

_Gendry feels warm._

"M’lady needs more clothes," he remarked. He meant it as a jape, but she whipped her hand back from his and turned her face to the side with irritation.

He was too close; his proximity made her heart beat too fast. Out of the corner of her eye, she was well aware of him staring at her. Not at what she was wearing, but at her face. His words rang in her head louder than before and meant even more.

 _Mine only_.

He was smiling still. She dared not do anything to wipe it off his face, but she did not have to; it faded when he saw that she was lost in thought.

"What is it?" he asked. His voice grew dark. "Arya, did he do anything to—"

She turned and cut him off with her lips crashing against his.

 _To shut him up_ , she tried to convince herself. After all, it was a stupid agreement—one she forced him into, one that should have not meant anything beyond their plan.

But she had not counted on him to return the kiss, for his lips to massage gently but ardently against hers, for his arms to sneak around her waist and press her against him.

A moment later, Gendry broke from her. His crystal blue eyes were wide and beautiful, filled with an unknown emotion she immediately felt addicted to. They were the only things keeping her from falling over; she felt so dizzy.

He laughed breathily. “I hope that was part of the plan, too.”

"Yours only," Arya recalled with a smirk.

And suddenly she understood the appeal of being rescued, just this once.


	2. Hangovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry gets into more trouble than he thought after drinking with Arya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : Spooning

Gendry woke up groaning, his head pounding and his eyes blinded by the incoming sunlight—not from a window, but from _outside._ He was lying on a field of grass, wet from the morning dew and cold. His only warmth was the partially-clothed feminine form pressing against him from behind, slim arms firm around his waist and a face buried into his back. 

"Oh, hells."

 _I fucked a highborn. I fucked_ Arya _._

Then he remembered that she drank, too; how she swayed and laughed and fell against him. How feverishly they kissed, how quick she slid out of her tunic.

Suddenly, Gendry ripped away from her, the hazy memory making blood rush to his groin. Only for him to realize that in doing so, he roused her awake.

"Gendry?" she croaked. "What are you doing?"

"Arya!" he practically yelped. "We should—"

"Shut up." She attached herself to him again, like the large, muscular pillow that he was. "My head hurts," she complained in a soft sigh.

Her breaths became steady, her hold affectionate. It was a rare sweetness from the tough little wolf. _This is nice_ , he found himself thinking as they relaxed against each other. Instantly, he calmed down enough to near slumber. It did not last long, however, for they soon had company.

"There you are!"  

Groggily, the pair sat up when Anguy came into view. Arya, whose tunic was half-off and hanging about her midsection, haphazardly covered her breasts with it. 

He did not seem disturbed in seeing Arya and Gendry in their current state. In fact, he seemed a tad annoyed. “Do you two know how much shit you got yourselves and Ned into?”  

That was not how Gendry remembered last night, and apparently, not how Arya remembered it, either. 

"What?" she spoke up. "I thought we just fucked and went to sleep." 

Gendry’s ears burned at her bluntness. 

Anguy snorted loudly. To mask his laughter, mayhaps. “That is only a quarter of it.”

"What happened to Ned?" she asked.

"He’s in a cell," the archer answered, giving them a pointed look. "In White Harbor." 

They both gaped at him. White Harbor was several hours away from their camp. Had they really been out all night?  

"How the—"  

"I don’t know, m’lady, but you and Gendry better go retrieve him." He turned and began walking back from whence he came, but not before adding over his shoulder, "And stop by Saltpans, while you’re at it. It seems you stole some prized animal from a Pentoshi captain and sold it to some Stormcrow… among other things."  

Once he was out of earshot, Gendry turned to Arya. “We _what_?” 

His look of disbelief must have been ridiculous, for she laughed when she replied. “I don’t know, Gendry! I don’t remember anything else!” She bit her lip to sober up. “But we should go.” 

"This is why I don’t drink with you," he remarked as he pulled himself to his feet. Having sex with a highborn now became the least of his problems.

She stood up first, shoving her arms through the sleeveholes of her tunic. Against the morning light, she looked beautiful, even with rat’s nest hair full of grass blades and cheeks powdered with dirt. Gendry could not remember a lot of things from last night, but he remembered how she always made him feel when he looked at her. 

"Well, I bet it was your fault Ned ended up in prison." She scoffed. "Always so stupid and grumpy when he talks to me." 

He bristled. “No, I’m not.” Although it was true that he did get jealous of the attention Edric Dayne received from her, he was not going to allow Arya the satisfaction of being right. 

She tossed him his shirt. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t regret any of it. Especially not—you’re different from other men and boys, Gendry. I’ll just say that.”

Gendry glanced at her with a raised brow, almost not catching the last set of words. He had half-expected her to ignore the subject altogether, as if it never happened. 

She was not looking directly at him, but the faint pink on her cheeks spoke true enough. It was one thing for Arya Stark to boast of sex and other crude things as men did, but another for her to soften and _feel_ for another without saying near as many words.

 _She’s a lady_ , logic reminded Gendry, but then backtracked. _But she’s Arya, and that’s all you want her to be, just as Gendry is all she asks of you._

"I’ve never regretted anything with you, Arya," he told her with a grin.

Her lips tugged, not into a smirk or cynical grin per usual, but a ghost of a genuine smile.

Then he remembered why they were leaving in the first place.

“But getting an outlaw lord arrested and stealing animals is probably pushing it,” he added, his chest sinking as he thought of the long adventure ahead.


	3. Weapon of Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya tries teaching Gendry how to use a sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** Dancing

"You said _left_!” Gendry complained loudly, using his wooden stick to bat hers away out of frustration.

 

"I said it, but you weren’t _looking_ ,” she snapped. She moved into her stance. “Pay attention with your eyes for once.”

 

Begrudgingly, Gendry went into the proper stance. He moved forward, but Arya was quick to parry. “Up right, down right, mid-left,” she called.

 

Right, right, _right_.

 

"Arya!"

 

"Words are wind, stupid!" she told him impatiently. She poked his irritated form in the chest with her stick. "Are you going to expect the enemy to say the truth all the time?"

 

He pursed his lips together, but didn’t say anything. Perhaps too stubborn, like he always was, to that admit she was right.

 

Either way, she realized that after two weeks’ worth of practice, he still did not warm up to water dancing. It offended her, as she _loved_ her sword discipline, but she couldn’t force Gendry to do the same.

 

"You hate this, don’t you?" she spoke up, looking at him.

 

"Hate what?" he asked as they circled each other for another round, neither side making the first move.

 

"This," she said. "Water dancing."

 

He shrugged, not in the mood to elaborate, it seemed. “You said I needed to use swords right.”

 

"Do you even like swords?" she asked, stopping and loosening her stance.

 

He rolled his eyes and straightened. “Why does it matter, Arya? How else am I going to protect myself? A smith’s hammer isn’t going to do much, is it?”

 

An idea popped into her head. “No, but a warhammer might.”

 

"Me? With a warhammer?" He furrowed a brow. He looked down at his makeshift sword with thought, imagining it a great warhammer, perhaps. "Like King Robert?"

 

"Yeah." She looked at him up and down. The more she thought about it, the more fitting the idea seemed. Even his features reminded her of King Robert. She remembered some of the stories her father told her from his youth—his dark Baratheon hair, his brawn, his hammer. "You’re big and strong. You’d be able to wield one easily."

 

He raised a brow at her. “I’m flattered you said that,” he remarked. “I don’t think you’ve ever complimented me before.”

 

She whacked his arm with her stick. He didn’t feel it, judging from his laughter.

 

” _Big and strong_ ,” he quoted her with a smile. “I don’t suppose m’lady fancies my face as well.”

 

 _He saw me staring_. Red-faced, Arya pushed him and stomped off, wondering why she bothered helping him with anything in the first place.


	4. Naive Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbyes are harder than she thought they would be. 
> 
> Takes place after S3E03 and before S3E05.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** Cooking/Baking

The Brotherhood had set up camp for the night.  
  
They were currently eating dinner close to the fire, laughing their rough laughters and singing their stupid songs. Arya chose to sit away from them all, from that damned carriage where the The Hound was, especially.  
  
They were many miles past the inn, and many hours after Arya took that first and only bite of the wolf scone in her hand. She did not have much of an appetite. Her gut was already satiated from her thoughts.  
  
Gendry did not take long to join her that evening, slumping against the same tree, his shoulder touching hers.  
  
“What do you want?” she asked wearily.  
  
“You might be hungry,” he replied. She then saw the metal plate in his hand. On it was half a boiled potato and a small bone of charred meat, which she wagered to be rabbit.  
  
“I have food,” she said, gesturing to the wolf scone she still had yet to finish.  
  
“You need more than that.”  
  
She let out a huff of breath and turned her head away. She hated that tone in his voice. It reminded her of her family’s smallfolk in Winterfell–servant-like and distantly respectful. She was painfully aware of the rift inching her and Gendry apart, but she did not understand why. She hated that, too, and for a second, hated _him_. He was one _m’lady_ away from getting punched in the face.  
  
“I’m not hungry. You can have my share for all I care.”  
  
He did not respond at first, and Arya found herself glancing at him again. He no longer looked like Gendry the servant, but Gendry, her packmate. Her most trusted friend who always stayed by her side.  
  
But catching the stubborn blue of his eyes, she wondered, with a brief grip of dread, if he would leave her, too.  
  
“You’ll be all right?” he asked her, setting the plate down next to him.  
  
She bristled. “Are you an idiot?”  
  
He snorted. “Just asking, that’s all.”  
  
“Winter is coming and you think I’d cry over a stupid piece of bread?” She practically threw it at him; he caught it with ease before it could hit his face.  
  
“Bread that Hot Pie baked you as a goodbye,” he reminded her. “Why are you so mad?”  
  
She shrugged mutely, and he didn’t press for an answer. He must have figured it out. Gendry was like that with her sometimes, when he felt like being smart. It was her favorite aspect of him.  
  
He took it upon himself to tear off the tail of the scone and shove it in his mouth. “You’re right,” he said lightly as he chewed. “This is good.”  
  
“Don’t choke yourself, stupid,” she said, a smirk forcing itself to her face.  
  
She almost didn’t see the smile he gave her, the silent reassurance. Wolves did not worry, and she wasn’t going to start now.  
  
Arya and Gendry shared the rest of the scone. She even worked up enough of an appetite to eat the food he brought her. She did not remember the last time someone made her feel so comfortable and warm. Not since her family. For a moment, she daydreamed of Riverrun and running into her mother’s arms, of Robb ruffling her hair. She imagined Gendry there with her. The more Arya thought of it, the more she wanted it.  
  
So now she must remain strong as her lady mother and as tough as the direwolf on her house’s sigil–just for that glimmer of hope.  
  
Otherwise, he might find somewhere safer to be.


	5. Blue-Eyed Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The girl with wolf-like grey eyes and long brown hair had come from the Free Cities, in the midst of a storm. The boat lost control in its last stretch across the Narrow Sea and crashed. She was shipwrecked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** In battle, side-by-side

The girl with wolf-like grey eyes and long brown hair had come from the Free Cities, in the midst of a storm. The boat lost control in its last stretch across the Narrow Sea and crashed. She was shipwrecked. More than that, she was half-buried under wooden debris on the sandy shore, one broken side of the ship her body’s shield. To her good fortune, she was not direly crushed; only trapped.

She was the lucky one to survive. Surely, the God of Many Faces still had plans for her. But unfortunately for the rest of the passengers and crew, they would not live to wonder where they landed.

She suddenly heard a soft shuffle across the sand. Then an inhuman moan crackling through the air.

She spoke too soon. She remembered how the Wall had fallen months ago, how all the danger from the land beyond it seeped into the rest of Westeros.

She darted her eyes to her right. A body, pale and soggy, rose from the low tide, with seeing but unseeing bright blue eyes.

_White Walker._

The girl wriggled violently to free herself, but the stacked debris was too heavy. She did not give up, though, and continued to nudge, push, and pull at her body and at the rubble.

 _Not today,_ she thought determinedly, seeing the creature drag itself closer. It wasn’t slow enough to give her time to think. _Not today._

“Not today!” she yelled, and gave the debris a final push with all the might in her arms and legs. She rolled out to freedom. The White Walker lunged forward, but she was quick. The girl slid further sideways and got to her feet. It almost lost its balance, but it wasn’t clumsy enough to fall.

The girl needed fire, but there was nothing in sight that could help her. Only rocks, sand, and water. All the wood around was too wet.

It seemed that the dead passengers were starting to re-awaken, for another strangled cry caught her attention. And then a third. She glanced back in time to see them charge at her, dripping, white, and dangerous, but it was the first Walker that clamped its soggy, cold hands on her shoulders from behind.

The girl whirled around, swinging out her rapier and slicing through its gut. The White Walker staggered backwards, granting her a few seconds to make distance.

An arrow suddenly whipped past her eyes, its head blazing with fire. It struck the first White Walker straight in the chest and sent it blazing. After seconds of staggering, the creature finally fell, succumbing to the flames.

A second and third arrow followed immediately after. The girl watched with muted awe as both shots hit their targets as perfectly as the initial one.

“…Arya?” a man’s voice called out carefully. “Gods, please tell me it’s you.”

She turned.

His hair was dark, swept to the side but falling against his stunned blue eyes. He had a beard trimmed close to his chin, and only seemed a few years older than her. His figure loomed over as he approached her on the beach, powerful and strong, but not intimidatingly so.

 _Arya._ The name had rolled off his tongue prettily enough, familiar and nostalgic. The name brought her visions of winter and direwolves. No, not visions–memories.

_Arya of House Stark._

“Arya,” she repeated in a whisper. A rush of emotion filled her heart, her gut, her throat. With one utterance of that name, she found herself again. And she found _him_. “Gendry…”

His attire was different. Gone was the dirty leather jerkin from his youth, the unkempt shirt. He wore a tunic of fine material instead, onyx black with yellow-gold embroidery. Patched on the right of his chest was the insignia of the stag.

Arya’s eyes widened.

His smile was small, but more prideful than she remembered.

“Welcome to Storm’s End.”


	6. Running Wolf I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her silence hurt him more than her insults or her punches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **prompt:** arguing  
>  **genre:** angst, alternate route
> 
> An alternate version of Melisandre/BwB that sort of meshes both the books and TV world, because I don’t care for the actual BenWeiss version, and because I originally wrote this before the release of “The Climb” and didn’t want to start over.
> 
> (Also, this is part 1 of 2)

Arya had been watching when the red priestess approached Gendry–when she spoke to him in her dark, flowery riddles, when she caressed his cheek in persuasion, when she offered him the one thing that would make him kin to someone of Arya of House Stark’s standing.

She didn’t take it in that way, however. He knew the look on her face the instant he glanced at her. _Will you leave me, too?_ her grey Stark eyes seemed to ask, although she always put a mean front for him.

_Of course I won’t leave you,_ he wanted to tell her. _I mean for you to come with me. I mean for us to become equal._

But he would never have the chance to. They haven’t talked for two days. Her silence hurt him more than her insults or her punches. Any attempt he took in alleviating the situation ended in scoffs and shoves, murderous glances and angry tears.

“Lady Melisandre asks to leave tonight instead of the morn,” Anguy told him a day later. “Your uncle is not a patient man, m'lord.”

“I’m not a lord,” Gendry sighed. “You know me, Anguy. I’m one of you.”

He smiled grimly. “Not if you return to House Baratheon.”

The smith’s heart sank. If he left tonight, he would have no opportunity to speak to Arya–she had gone off somewhere. According to that damned lord Edric Dayne, she would be back by nightfall. “It has to be tomorrow,” Gendry insisted. “Tell m'lady that I absolutely can’t leave until the morrow.”

* * *

Arya never came back.

He learned the hard way, waiting for hours at his anvil for her. When he wasn’t working on something on it, he was sitting on it, watching the roads, the paths, the trees. Fear and worry bit him, but she was strong enough to survive anything. She would come back.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” a velvet feminine voice rang from behind him. “We have a long ride tomorrow, my lord.”

_I’m not a lord,_ he thought. _Just as Arya isn’t a lady._

And suddenly, he felt his chest tighten. He missed her.

“I’m worried about Arya,” he admitted as Melisandre stood next to him.

“Maybe she left.”

He scowled. “She wouldn’t leave without telling me. Or without me with her.”

“Ser Beric said the Brotherhood would start their search in the morning.” She looked at him with amusement. “You care about her greatly.”

“We’ve been through everything together,” Gendry said, his voice far away. “She depends on me just as I depend on her.”

“And yet your decision to come with me was without her counsel,” she reminded him. “You are meant to leave the riverlands, Gendry. I saw it in my fires.”

_But am I meant to leave her?_ “Is she with me when we leave?”

“Get some sleep, my lord.” She placed her knuckles gently against his cheek.

He flinched and pulled away. _Arya won’t come,_ he realized. _That is what she’s really saying._

He could have asked her why, but he knew that Melisandre dared not reveal more than necessary–if she had anything to reveal at all.

“Shall I walk with you to your room?” she questioned.

“No,” he said, and turned away to stare into the night. “I just need some time alone.”

The red priestess gave him a long look before leaving. After she disappeared back into the inn, Gendry rushed to the stables. He had to find Arya _now_.

* * *

Day broke when Gendry finally returned.

Melisandre, Thoros, Anguy, and Beric were already outside of the inn, talking urgently amongst each other. Melisandre’s escort was already standing at the ready.

It was Edric Dayne, standing off to the side, who saw him first. “There he is!” he exclaimed in relief to the other brothers.

“Boy, where have you been?” Thoros sputtered, approaching as the blacksmith unmounted.

“Nowhere,” he said listlessly, his voice nearly gone from yelling her name throughout the night.

_I lost Arya._

Beric furrowed a suspicious brow at him.

“We are running behind on time,” Melisandre said, choosing not to take notice of Gendry’s ill mood. “We must ride now.”

Anguy beckoned him. “We need you to be on a fresh horse. Yours looks spent. Come on.”

He forced himself to remember that it had been his own decision. She wouldn’t have liked it if he relied too much on her, especially if he was the one leaving her in the first place. _This_ was what he chose, with or without her. He should have expected consequences.

He looked to the forest once more before climbing onto his new horse. _Like a wolf,_ he suddenly thought, and then realized that she may be completely on her own. _A lone wolf._

“Aye, we will find the girl,” Beric assured him. “No doubt.”

Gendry wasn’t sure about that, but he swallowed the worry in his throat and followed Melisandre away from the inn; away from the Brotherhood, from the forest he searched, from the part of his life he spent with a brave little girl from Winterfell.


	7. Running Wolf II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There was a girl who stayed with us,” he explained in a whisper. “A boyish little thing with brown hair and grey eyes. She called herself Cat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **prompt:** making up afterward  
>  **genre:** hurt/comfort, alternate route
> 
>  
> 
> (Part 2 of 2)

Gendry never imagined the journeys he had to take. He never imagined anything dramatic. He did not think having to hide from the queen would turn into hiding from a red priestess.

_“Go,”_ Davos Seaworth hissed to him as he pulled him to the docks one foggy night. _“Before that monster of a woman sees us in her fires.”_

And so, Gendry, baseborn blacksmith turned royal bastard, set sail for Lys.

He rather enjoyed his life from then on. The Free Cities provided the peace he needed—away from the War of the Five Kings and all the danger he had to go through. He could be his own person, whoever he wanted. And there, his trade was profitable. Though Gendry was no _master_ in smithing, he was still proud of his skill. It did not take him long to make money that was good enough for travel, to move on to other places—Braavos, in particular.

He lived a short distance from the dock. Oft times, he would stop by the fishermans’ booths. They all knew Gendry by name, laughing at how fond he grew of seafood since moving to the Free Cities.

These fish carts were usually busy but peaceful, but apparently, not today.

“The girl,” a cloaked figure stressed to a tense fish merchant at his cart—who Gendry recognized as Aggelo, a grown son of fishmonger Brusco and close to his own age. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” he insisted, waving his hands in front of him. “She hasn’t been here in ages!”

The figure slid a dagger from his waist and held it to his throat. “Where are you hiding her?”

Unable to take being a bystander anymore, Gendry stepped up and bumped shoulders against the stranger, who, side-by-side, stood a good few inches shorter than him and was thinner in physique.

“We’re having a private conversation here.”

“Don’t seem so if you have that dagger pulled out in the open like that,” Gendry said.

The figure turned, and Gendry saw his face for the first time. Disturbing, really, with such an unnaturally smooth face. It looked like it was stretched and pulled back tight and tied behind his head.

“A smart guy, aren’t ya?” he snarled.

Mustering his most dangerous scowl, Gendry stepped closer, using his size to intimidate. “I may be just a smith,” he muttered evenly, “but I know how to break a leg or two. I don’t need steel to do that.”

The stranger could not afford to lose his mobility, it seemed. With a curse under his breath, he darted off, sheathing his dagger and tightening his cloak behind him.

Once he was out of sight, Aggelo sighed with relief and thanked Gendry. “They only come around once in a while,” he added with a frown. “Not sure why they bother. My answer’s always the same. My father won’t know much, either.”

“Who?” asked Gendry.

The fisherman leaned in. “There was a girl who stayed with us,” he explained in a whisper. “A boyish little thing with brown hair and grey eyes. She called herself Cat.”

Coincidence. It must be. She sounded like a common kind of girl, and Cat was a common name. But wasn’t _her_ mother’s name _Cat_ elyn?

He had to ask. “Did she have a sword?”

“A pointy one. Too small for a dirk. It’s like a child’s sword.”

“Needle,” Gendry whispered.

“Ah, yes, like a needle!”

_Arya._

All this time, Aggelo knew, and Gendry didn’t realize.

The fisherman watched him curiously. “Why… do you know her?”

“I might,” Gendry let himself admit. “She sounds like an old friend of mine.”

Aggelo offered him a small smile. It was not a hopeful one. “As I said, she appears and disappears again. My father and I started to figure that when she does come, she brings trouble with her.”

“Trouble,” Gendry repeated. “Like that man with the cloak?”

“Like the House of Black and White.”

The smith knew vaguely of the House of Black and White, but all he was aware of were not good. “Assassins?” He didn’t know how to feel about that, although he had been through a lot in Westeros. How worse could it get?

Aggelo set a consoling hand on Gendry’s arm. “Even if Cat’s someone precious, it’s best you stay away from there. Let her come to you.”

The fisherman made it seem like a hopeless cause, and Gendry supposed it was plausible to think that way. But it was _Arya._ He was close; _so close_.

Gendry’s thoughts must have been evident on his face. “It’s dangerous,” Aggelo added. “I know that much to be true. That cloaked figure would be the least of your troubles. Be patient, Gendry.”

Gendry didn’t doubt his words, but he did not know how long his patience was willing to stretch.

* * *

A year passed after that first incident. Sometimes Gendry thought about Arya, sometimes he did not. He was especially reminded of her whenever he set up shop near Aggelo, which was often. But the fishmonger’s son didn’t mind at all—he could use the extra protection.

When Gendry arrived with his cart that morning, Aggelo’s expressions changed from his usual good-naturedness to something much more anxious.

“Good morning,” Gendry said in a slow voice, watching him carefully.

“She’s at the house.” The words tumbled out of Aggelo’s mouth, and they did not sound too happy.

The smith’s heart leaped in his throat, regardless.

“But…?” he prompted.

“Aggelo,” interrupted a voice from a short distance, followed by a blurb in Braavosi.

Gendry swore he saw a shiver travel up the fish merchant’s spine. But he still managed to gesture to his left.

A petite individual in a black and white cloak approached them with curt steps. The bagginess of the cloak obscured the stranger’s form, but he judged the voice to be feminine.

He paled. “Wait…”

But the girl spoke in Braavosi again to Aggelo. Gendry could make out her lips under her hood, a light scar crossing them as if someone once tried to silence her.

He could not help himself. She was _here_.

“Arya?”

She looked at him in alarm. It seemed that she had not wanted to react to the name, but she did, nonetheless, and it was all he needed to confirm who she was.

"Who are you?” she asked him in common tongue, looking infuriated. “If we’ve no business with you, I suggest you leave.”

Her eyes were different. They were the grey he remembered clearly, but there was something haunting and empty about them. _She walked dark paths_ , he realized. Darker than he could ever fathom.

“Ah, but he does,” Aggelo piped up, rather nervously. “He’s, well… he says he’s an old friend of yours. From Westeros.”

“I have no friends in Westeros.”

“Arya,” he interjected. “Arya, it’s me.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he reached for her with his hands. “It’s Gendry.”

She recoiled from him with narrowed eyes. “That name is unfamiliar.“

His heart sank. How could she not remember him? This was Arya, he knew it. But she looked at him now with disgust, with both a familiar and unfamiliar look. _But this must be a jape._

"Stop it.”

“I’m not this Arya you seek, smith.”

“ _You are_!” He hadn’t meant to yell at her, but his emotion got the better of him. He had missed her, dreamed of her all these years, but a shell of a girl was all he found in Braavos. “You’re Arya of House Stark!” he shouted. “You saved me from the gold cloaks and Harrenhal. You trusted me when no one else did! You had a direwolf named Nymeria, and brothers and a sister! You lived in a castle—in Winterfell!”

She froze. There was no Needle in her hands, but her fingers twitched for its familiar grip.

“You had friends named Hot Pie and Lommy Greenhands,” he went on, pleading her with his eyes. “You—Arya, I _know_ you.”

“You know nothing,” she muttered, her lips pulled into a half snarl. “I am No One.”

“No One? You’re so much more.” He stepped forward. “Please tell me you remember that. I’m sorry about the way we parted. _Please._ I thought the Red Wedding took you.”

The look in her eyes changed. No longer hardened steel, but wide-eyed horror. _The Red Wedding._

Just like that, her guard slipped completely, like pieces of a knight’s steel armor falling apart at his feet. He instantly regretted his words. She had been there, for sure, and he was the idiot to have triggered her trauma. But it was more than that, he could tell. He triggered who she was in Westeros, who she was to her family, her wolf, the Brotherhood, Hot Pie, enemies old and new, and _him_. Burdens scarred her expression deeply, especially in her eyes.

“Leave,” she hissed. Tears formed at the corner of her eyes.

She should have known all this time that he did not always listen to her.

He tackled her into his embrace. Gendry expected bone and rigidity, but her body was soft as a grown woman’s. He had known her as a child, skin and bone, but here she was years later, plush and curved.

“Leave!” she growled. She struggled against him at first. Even the most basic touches were unfamiliar to her. He knew that she had not felt warmth in who knew how long. She was pushing, scratching, punching; but not once has she pulled a blade against him. She was taller and stronger than when he last saw her, but he was even bigger.

“Leave,” she demanded again, much more half-heartedly, and then lost herself in his arms; fiercely, like he was the closest thing to the home she left years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of rushed. Sorry. ;.;


End file.
